


The Visitor

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Chiss, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 08:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Grand Moff Tarkin suddenly wakes up on board an alien warship. What can the Chiss and their attractive Admiral possibly want from him?





	The Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy linguistics and it was a disappointment to me to find out how abysmal the Cheunh vocabulary is in canon. Thus, for the purposes of this story, I’ve relied on the fan-created Coruscant translator, found here: http://starwars.myrpg.org/coruscant_translator.php
> 
> Finally, my warm thanks to Cassandra1 for the beta work.

 

_…ran’cuzo nah vav… nah bekavcim’i…_

His sense of hearing returns before his eyesight. The incomprehensible gibberish his captors use for a language is mostly composed of mumbling and hisses, but the intonation sounds familiar. He guesses their origin even before hearing that one voice he recognizes. Thrawn. The blue devils. He is pleased to have been proven right regarding the so-called Grand Admiral’s loyalties.

As his senses and his strength slowly return, he bides his time. Let them think him helpless, weakened, vulnerable. He awaits the perfect moment.

Tarkin’s only thought as his fist connects with the traitor’s jaw is how sublime the sound is. The action itself is extremely satisfying. The pain catches up with him a few seconds later and although he knows, he is not prepared for it. It hurts now, much worse than he remembers from his younger years. Still, that pain is nothing in comparison with the anger that explodes in his head at Thrawn’s indifference. The blue bastard is just standing there, watching with mild interest as Tarkin nurses his bruised hand. It’s almost infuriating enough to rouse him into another attack.

He springs again and this time, the alien recoils.

* * *

 

Breakfast is served by the usual young male, but he is flanked by two guards with faces of stone – one male, one female. Thrawn doesn’t show up until after the next meal. The alien’s chin bears no evidence of fighting. His own hand is still sore.

“Allow me to welcome you on board the warship Cart’tusah, Governor.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t share your enthusiasm for my visit. What do I even call you now?” With the alien in the black uniform that is apparently his correct attire, Tarkin will no longer maintain the absurd pretence of them ever serving on the same side.

“My rank within the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet is undecided at present. I suggest you address me by my name.”

”Very well, Thrawn. This seems to be the moment where I ask to be taken to your leader. Whoever that is.”

“I will take you to her.”

* * *

 

The Chiss commander is a formidable woman. Stern-looking, tall, with a chiselled face to rival his own. She stares at him, just like they all do. For a while he just stands there, giving her the same treatment, but he cannot take it perpetually.

“What is the purpose of this?” He throws up his hands. “I do commend Thrawn here on his treachery – he succeeded in duping us all!”

She shows no sign of understanding his words, but she gives a nod, and Thrawn speaks.

“Curiosity.”

“What?”

“The purpose of your visit, governor Tarkin, is to satisfy curiosity. Admiral Ar’alani wishes to acquaint herself with a human.”

“And she has not come across any before? I remember the stories you told, about the first human visitors to your people. Not to mention your own entourage; you could have picked one of them.” He mutters. “As if there aren’t enough alien-loving fools around who’d have jumped at the opportunity to –“

“None of the others held her interest.”

“Is that what I am? A superior specimen?”

“She finds you intriguing. And very capable of what she has in mind.” There is no mistaking the suggestive glance, from both of them. Thrawn adds, lifting an elegant eyebrow, “Procreation is the acceptable term, I believe?”

“I guess I’m supposed to be flattered. No offense to you, madam, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

The notion that he has been abducted to serve as some sort of stud is ridiculous. It is so far-fetched that he should immediately dismiss it as a ruse to keep him away from the war. Or the Chiss indeed know nothing of human biology.

The admiral gives a soft hiss that Thrawn translates with a question. “Why?”

“Men of my age seldom sire children. The possibility is there, but no guarantee.”

“My apologies,” Thrawn hurries to say, instead of relaying the reply to his superior. “My previous translation was inaccurate. The admiral wishes to sleep with you for entertainment purposes. For pleasure,” he corrects himself.

“Do I look like some young stag willing to jump into bed at any opportunity?”

To his surprise, she doesn’t laugh as his reply is translated. Rather, her gaze becomes more intense, her mouth opening slightly. She appears almost excited.

His eyes widen at the low growl emanating from deep in her throat. If he has initially doubted her interest, there is no doing so now. He wonders for a moment what her hair would feel like to run between his fingers or grab in his fist. Reluctantly, he admits to wanting to hear her make that sound again.  

Thrawn’s translation is utter unnecessary. “The admiral values experience.”

“She does, now. Tell her I appreciate the offer, but no.” Flattering as it is, he has a war to fight. Did she honestly think the Grand Moff would gladly leave his duty for this?

“I have my duty to attend to,” he adds before the translation is complete. “A duty to my people, and its ruler.” This seems to catch her attention, and he adds for good measure: “I must do this before I can think of pleasure.”

 “The admiral’s wish is above your orders,” Thrawn says. She considers your temporary removal a small sacrifice for your Empire in comparison with the gains received from my service.”

“Not an offer, but an order? It’s regrettable, but I don’t perform well under duress.” The lie crosses his lips casually enough, but it grates on him. “This is a common biological feature in humans, not a personal flaw,” he adds.

This time she smiles.

“You have been appointed as adviser to Admiral Ar’alani,” Thrawn states. “This is an honour and you will serve under her on board this vessel for the foreseeable future.”

“You must release me immediately!” He’s on the verge of blowing up again. “I’m not some disposable lieutenant. I have friends in high places. Kidnapping the Grand Moff, and at the height of our triumph! The Emperor needs me.”

“Perform well, and your friends will one day find you miraculously rescued.” She smiles briefly, then her expression hardens again. “Continue to disrupt the Ascendancy’s plans, and you will perish like your Empire already believes you have.” She gives a curt nod and a young girl of perhaps ten years comes forward to stand beside her.

This is too much. “Do you keep children onboard to gawk at strangers?”

The admiral hits him fast, hissing something harsh, making not only the child fade a fraction. Her strength is considerable.

“You will not insult the _Ozyly-esehembo_ ,” Thrawn offers mildly. “The girl is our navigator. You may thank her.”

“For what? Becoming your _guest_?” He spits it and sees the admiral’s hand twitch.

“For your life. She convinced the admiral to act at this precise moment, thereby preventing your premature demise.”

“I would be in perfect health without your intervention.”

“The Death Star is no more. I am sorry,” Thrawn says, bowing with that perfect deference that grates on his bones. 

He cannot be sorry. If indeed the Death Star has been blown out of existence – a catastrophe of too large a magnitude to imagine – Thrawn would be smiling with glee, as he surely has done behind Tarkin’s back, conspiring with his compatriots ever since the beginning. How has the Emperor not seen this?

He purses his lips. “If this is true, I gather the funding for your TIE Defender programme has just been secured. That is, if you intend to go back.” He doesn’t even try to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Governor, the destruction of the DS-1 is the deed of the rebels. The exiled remnant of the Alderaan cell.” There isn’t a hint of accusation in Thrawn’s calm voice. There needn’t be; they both know that the alien never approved of using the station’s power.

At night it hurts. Without his magnificent weapon to back it up, the Tarkin Doctrine, his legacy, is impotent, a shrivelled husk of the power it once was. Is this heavenly justice then? An almost-moon for a planet, all his colleagues, subordinates, his career blown to dust in revenge for an act too powerful for the very universe to tolerate?

He cannot thank the child.

* * *

 

Entertaining the admiral isn’t the chore he expected it to be, and he finds he has no difficulty at all performing. She is eager, responsive, and adventurous in ways that encourage him not only to bring his entire repertoire into play but to be inventive as well. With no language in common, they rely heavily on the fragments they do know. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ go a long way. She talks a lot. After a while some words become familiar to him. She laughs when he repeats them to her.

Each time, afterwards, he asks her for permission to leave and she says no. It’s his first word in Cheunh and she says it so brutally. With time, he grows a little less interested in the answer. He keeps asking; this is their ritual.

He takes notes of everything on board – the instruments, the actions of the crew, the objectives of their journeys when she cares to share them with him. By day it’s all in his head; at night he scribbles. Until he realises. What she is showing him, all this knowledge, the Empire already has, in Thrawn. Is this what she is doing? Proving what her people has already given to his, with a reward in mind, or perhaps to eventually offer an alliance of some sort?

She shares his bed even when all she wants is to sleep. It is comforting, sleeping next to someone. Why did he never marry?

The black uniform is where he draws the line. It is of a dashing design; it is neither practicality nor looks that deter him from donning it.

* * *

 

One day in the mess hall he sees the girl again, the navigator with the title he can now identify as _sky-walker_. He is reminded of his immature behaviour towards her at their previous meeting and his need to change her impression of him. She is almost sacred and as an outsider he isn’t allowed to approach her, but he is lucky. She stares at him from afar, then comes to his side as he eats. It takes him a while to notice her presence; he only does so when the others lay their cutlery down to stare at her with polite interest.

She says nothing, but her small hand, as she lays it on top of his, feels like a jolt of power. It takes all his will not to snatch it back but let it rest on the table.

“Thank you,” he says. It comes out as barely a whisper, and he repeats it, over and over until she removes her hand and he feels like a fool. Whatever did he do that for? He turns away with a clenched jaw, then gazes up at her again. She looks back with a shy smile.

“I like you,” she says. “You’re funny.”

He smiles back – he cannot help it – then schools his features into a more dignified expression. The others have started eating again and thankfully, the episode is never mentioned.

* * *

 

That morning, Ar’alani is the one asking.

“Do you want to leave, Wilhuff?” Her pronunciation of his name is a little off, much like his entire vocabulary. He knows most of the officers’ names now, but much of the rest of it still sounds like hissing and mumbling if he doesn’t concentrate. He will never speak their language well. Only his r’s are perfection; this she told him already on their first night, even if he didn’t learn that until much later.

“I think so,” he replies, flabbergasted. “Yes, please.” His old life, his responsibilities, the power, the way they all depend on him and his word is law. Somehow, he’s already dismissed the possibility of that ever happening. His release. Suddenly he’s not so sure.

“Stay, Wilhuff,” she says. “You would be within your rights to retire, or you could become my adviser officially.”

He sighs. “No, Ar’alani. My duty and my loyalty must come first.” This is much harder to say than he ever thought it could be. Maybe there is a way back again, after the war, if he is released from service. Maybe there isn’t, and he must only be thankful for what was.

* * *

 

Four years. His time onboard the Chiss warship has felt like an eternity at times, yet there is always something new to learn. The vast expanses of space call to him much more than a desk, however elevated his position.  He should have expected his universe to change in that time, yet his belief in the Empire’s victory never wavered. The news delivered by the scout ship is a blow out of nowhere.   
  
“There is nothing,” Thrawn declares solemnly. “My condolences.”

“This must be some kind of mistake, of mis-navigation.”

“No. Your Emperor is dead. There is no successor.”

He has thought about it before. What to do in case the Empire he returns to is not the one he left. It mostly boils down to Sheev. To loyalty and honour. He has not considered a world where the Empire doesn’t exist.

“Turn around. _Cso-sn’ah ses-vi-o’-ah_.” He repeats it with excruciating thoroughness, but the crew understood the first time. “And bring the uniform.”


End file.
